


In Avian Manner

by xx_bittersweet_merlin



Series: founders era [7]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Birds of Prey - freeform, Demigods, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Raptors, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:23:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xx_bittersweet_merlin/pseuds/xx_bittersweet_merlin
Summary: Madara's gotten into a mood again. It's been a long time since he felt as off as he does, like he's pulled a muscle without being able to feel it, and he starts to notice some...oddities.He tries to rationalize it, but they all begin to point to the unsettling notion that he may not be entirely... human.(Hashirama isn't, either.)





	1. Peculiarities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theadventuresof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/gifts).



> ok look byelawliet and i were talking and i mentioned how,,what if,, madara's mother was,,not exactly "normal" (guess who. just guess if you've read mtiaw it's easy) and all of this resulted from that...just...,,,consider
> 
> https://byelawliet.tumblr.com/post/174697632471/hashirama-notices-things-pitchblackmagpie

It was happening again.

It had been years since his nails had acted up like this. The worst incident had been when he was eleven, when he’d forgotten to trim them and had woken up with them grown over the tips of his fingers, and he’d had to frantically clip them before Tajima saw and had ended up cutting his fingers in several places.

Madara stared down at his unruly nails in derision, twirling the nail clipper in the hand not under his scrutiny. He’d just trimmed them last night, and yet now, just after sunrise, they’d grown out- much too long, pointed and sharp and not at all what he could wear in his gloves without being careful.

Honestly, how could anyone walk around without ever wearing a pair of gloves? He had no idea how other people dealt with this.

Scowling, he set about clipping them down to a manageable size. At least it was no longer so easy to break his nails. They’d become weaker and more brittle after years of waking up hungry more often than not, but food had been plentiful as of late.

At least the over-abundance of vegetables tasted better than rats did.

Sunlight was dribbling in through the curtains, casting a mottled pattern over the stains on his floor where Izuna had dropped a pot of tomato sauce on purpose when Madara kept “mother-henning” him on how “much he obviously needed help” and how he “couldn’t be trusted with basic tasks.” Madara didn’t see the need for such dramatics. He’d only thought his brother might want a bit of assistance taking the pot to the proper burner on the stove; he knew Izuna could get around just fine on his own.

He set down his nail clipper with a sigh when he was finished, examining his hands with something like incensement. It was an inconvenient task. Part of him, however, almost wanted to just let them grow out, just to see how cumbersome they could get, but he knew he would get strange looks if he did.

Footsteps on the path that led to his front door made him turn around. He took the clipper and the small basket he used to collect his nail shavings and set them on the bottom shelf of the bookshelf in his front room and kitchen, taking his gloves from where he’d stuffed them in the sash around his waist and pulling them on as he headed for his door.

He opened it just before Izuna knocked- and it was Izuna, judging by the tune he’d been humming under his breath before Madara opened the door preemptively- and raised an eyebrow when his brother reached out with his cane and whacked him in the shin. It didn’t do more than sting, but he couldn’t see why it was deserved.

“In a sour mood, little brother?”

“Shut up, Madara,” the other Uchiha replied, a certain amount of scathing viciousness in his tone that would have made someone who wasn’t an Uchiha wince. “You know I hate it when you do that. Stop using your sensory skill against me.”

That was ironic, coming from someone who used every ‘sensory skill’ he had to get around, and Madara had to bite his tongue to keep himself from correcting the younger man and making him more irritated. He never even had to use his chakra sensing; everyone was so loud whenever they traipsed about it was a wonder anyone got any peace and quiet in this village.

Well, at least it was quieter than it had been a few months ago. Izuna had made everyone he ran across cringe for the cranky mood he radiated, as upset he’d been with Madara accepting the peace treaty (never mind the fact he’d _barely_ survived his fight with Tobirama, and probably wouldn’t have made it through a second one).

Still, he’d come around. Sort of. Madara thought he had. He still got into his…moods…but he was much more favorable towards everyone, even the random Senju he ran into walking around.

“What did you want?” he asked, instead of giving into his ornery temptation to start a pointless argument for the sake of starting a pointless argument.

Izuna smiled at him. It was somehow just as bright and unsettling as when he hadn’t worn bandages around his empty eye-sockets. (At least he hadn’t complained about _that_ being Madara’s fault. He _was_ the one who’d torn them out and made Madara take them.)

“Can’t I just come visit my favorite brother in the morning?” he asked, his tone as innocent as a small child’s. It was fake. It was always fake.

Madara narrowed his eyes. “I’m your only brother.”

“Hikaku could be a pseudo brother,” Izuna returned, just as innocently, twirling the handle of his cane in his hands. “Who knows, maybe I like him better than you.”

“Izuna.”

“Or Naori. Women can be brothers too.”

“By definition they cannot be. What do you want, Izuna? You know I’m busy at this time of day.”

Izuna let out a dainty sniff and tilted his chin up, turning his head away as if averting his gaze from Madara’s pitiful form. “Yes, yes, I know, you’re obsessed with personal hygiene. I just thought I’d come by and say hello before you eat your barbaric breakfast of barely-cooked meat that spreads that weird scent all over your kitchen.”

Madara twitched. “We’ve all been having fruit and rice for breakfast for weeks lately, and even if I did have meat I cook it properly.”

“Hmm.”

“I do! I just like it more…more rare than you do,” Madara stammered, feeling a bit of tiny, diluted embarrassment creep up his spine. Whenever they used to eat their rations together Izuna had always made sure his meat was firm and greyish, but he didn’t see the point in roasting it that long. So what if it was a bit more pink?

“Rare? It’s like you go out, slice a cow up, and eat it while it’s still cooling!” Izuna cried, losing his image of cool composure as he swung the cane about, making Madara duck to avoid being hit.

“I do not! I just like a healthy bit of color!”

“Well done! It’s called well done, you swine!” Izuna yelled, whacking him again, harder this time. Madara swore and kicked the cane away, retreating half a step into his house and rubbing the offended area as he glared.

“Stop berating me over my diet choices, Izuna, I’m more than capable of cooking. What do you want?”

He didn’t see what the problem was, anyway. He’d had raw meat before and his cooking was _definitely_ not raw.

Izuna let out a long, beleaguered sigh, leaning heavily on his cane as he placed it in the short grass that had shown up the last time Hashirama had walked over his doorstep. He’d brought a little potted cactus with small pink buds flowering all over it to sit in the windowsill above Madara’s sink, setting it there with a smile as he told Madara he hoped it would remind him there were new, beautiful things on the horizon. His smile was prettier than the flowers. Light from the evening torches outside had been streaming in the open window behind him, waxing in complimented by the gentle sound of crickets chirping outside, exuding a warmth and relaxation Madara saw so rarely-

He had…shoved Hashirama out the side door in the kitchen and yelled at him to keep his gushing to himself and then ran straight to his room to rake his hands through his hair in front of his vanity and seethe over the whole incident for hours.

It wasn’t his fault Hashirama was…stupid. It was just stupid, the entire thing.

“You in there, aniki?”

He realized Izuna was waving a hand in front of his face and jerked. “What?”

Izuna sighed again, wearing the exact expression he did when he used to roll his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“I am not _hopeless_ ,” Madara said with a scowl, folding his arms. “And that does not even make a lick of sense, anyway, and- what did you want?” he nearly shrilled, realizing he had, again, been diverted from his question.

Izuna, somehow, without eyes, still gave him the driest stare on that half of the village. “You would have heard if you hadn’t zoned out. Probably thinking about a _certain someone_. But anyway, there’s a farmer’s market tomorrow morning and we’re going together.”

Madara sighed. This was all a disproportionate amount of trouble to ask him to go to a farmer’s market. He wondered, not for the first time, why Izuna could never simply do anything the normal way. “Fine.”

The pout was evident in Izuna’s voice. “You don’t sound excited.”

“No, Izuna, I am extraordinarily excited to go look at eggplants. Don’t you see me smiling?”

Izuna whacked him with the cane again. “There’s going to be honey,” he retorted, as if pulling out his trump card, and Madara couldn’t stop himself from perking up and swearing at himself when he did. “We haven’t had a chance for that in a long time.”

He smiled, smug, knowing Madara’s interest was piqued, and the elder brother scowled and turned away out of habit of hiding from Izuna’s knowing gaze. “Fine. What time?”

“About this time. I want to go before breakfast, so we can actually find something appetizing to eat instead of raw meat.”

“I don’t eat raw meat!” Madara cried, almost stomping his foot like he had when he was a child, making Izuna’s smile grow wider.

“I’ll pick you up, aniki,” he said, in that evil, fake tone of his, turning and wandering away. He swept his cane out in completely unnecessarily wide, rapid strokes that forced anyone coming his way to hop out of the way in a panic, never losing his guileless smile.

Madara watched him go, twitching, and slammed the door just a little as he retreated. If he had to pick one perfect talent Izuna had to his name, it was annoying him. Sometimes, other than grieving over his lost brothers, he did wonder just how much worse it would be with three more. Izuna would probably cultivate them to be just as irritating little devils as he.

He’d just finished fixing his breakfast when the itching reared its ugly head. He’d felt a faintly uncomfortable sensation when he’d awoken, but he’d hoped it was just a fluke, and he scowled as he tromped down the hall towards his room, leaving his food untouched on the kitchen counter.

Shuddering as he yanked a comb from one of his desk drawers, he sat down in front of his mirror and began yanking it through his hair, glowering at his reflection. He _hated_ it when this happened. It was inconvenient and uncomfortable and _embarrassing_ , shedding hair everywhere like some cat. He supposed he just lost much more than most, considering how much he had in the first place.

He pulled the comb out of his hair and wrinkled his nose at it. Curly black fuzz was wrapped around its teeth, black strands of hair draping down towards the desk surface; it was so _troublesome_.

“Ridiculous,” he hissed to himself as he pulled a box out of his bottom desk drawer, depositing the hair inside. It wasn’t as if he wanted anyone to _see_ it. Yet another inconvenience.

It was probably the spring air. It hadn’t happened in a long time but it seemed to happen around the time winter changed to spring when it did. He supposed it might have something to do with humidity or something like that.

But regardless, it was inconvenient, and he swore he sometimes wished he could snip it all off no matter how pretty it was as he tossed the comb aside and got up to storm back to his probably-cool food.


	2. Must Bee the Honey

“You’re wearing a mantle, aren’t you?”

Madara met Izuna’s dry expression with a defiant stare, standing there with folded arms in his doorway as Izuna tapped his cane against the welcome mat.

Judgmentally.

“So what if I am?”

“Aniki,” Izuna told him, slowly, as if speaking to a child, “you can’t wear a mantle to a farmer’s market.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Aniki,” he repeated, whining this time, “it’s a _farmer’s market_!”

“So _what_ if it’s a farmer’s market?” Madara asked, but he knew it was pointless. There was no arguing with Izuna once he got his mind set on something.

Izuna huffed, gesturing with one hand and showing off the draping sleeve of the navy-colored kimono he wore. It was casual, but handsome, with silver edges, and the only kimono he owned. “Farmer’s markets are for fun, relaxation, and looking at men whose biceps have benefited from constant tree-felling. Go change into that kimono Naori and I sewed for you.”

Madara let them stand in stubborn silence for a moment and sighed. He left Izuna standing there on his doorstep, not bothering to close the door (he typically didn’t bother with his windows, either; it wasn’t like small rodents liked coming anywhere near his house anyway) and walked down the hall to his bedroom.

The only kimono _he_ owned had taken Naori and Izuna months to sew, not for its difficulty but for looking for the fabrics. He’d appreciated the effort, but hadn’t considered it the most useful usage of their time.

It was also made with a wide, sweeping neck, and he wrinkled his nose at it as he pulled it from his wardrobe. Normally, he wouldn’t have a problem with it, but whenever he got into these odd moods he hated to have his neck exposed.

He slipped out of his mantle and trousers, leaving the wraps around his shins, and pulled it on in front of his longer mirror. They’d been more expensive before Konoha, when it was risky for merchants to move them around due to them breaking so easily, but now that there were so many in immobile locations in the village they were as cheap as ever.

The air on his collarbone made him shiver. His face twisted into an unpleasant expression, even to himself, though he couldn’t help it; all he felt like doing was hunching down and curling into himself so his neck wasn’t exposed.

But Izuna insisted, and it had been a while since he’d done anything with his brother, so caught up in paperwork and appeasing the clan and trying to ignore how pointedly most of them had voted against him when it came to who became Hokage, so he suffered through it.

He emerged from his home with a basket in hand, knowing he would need it for any honey he came across, and Izuna perked up with a smile.

“Tell me if you see any apricots,” he said, as cheerful as ever, wrapping an arm around the elbow Madara offered him.

“Why, so you can eat fifteen in one sitting and give yourself a bellyache again?”

The younger pouted. “I was fourteen, Madara. Let it go.”

“As soon as you let go when I ate those bad mushrooms by mistake.”

“Absolutely never.”

“My exact point.”

The paranoid feeling of those around him staring at his neck heightened when they stepped off the road leading into the Uchiha compound onto a busier street. Madara ground his teeth and reminded himself that no one was staring, it was only his mind deciding to be cranky, and it was just as fake as the itch in his fingernails that worsened if he focused on it any.

The loud clang of a farmer setting a heavy crate of potatoes onto a wooden table made him wince. He’d gotten distracted again, and had barely noticed they’d moved into a busier- and noisier, he noted with distaste- part of town.

“Here, aniki,” Izuna hummed, drawing a piece of wood from his sleeve and handing it to him. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t a simple piece of wood, but a fan that was dyed blue to make the Uchiha emblem on it pop. “Use this to hide your grimace.”

“I’m not grimacing,” Madara argued, even as he did, indeed, grimace. Izuna withdrew one of his own and fanned a light breeze onto his face, smiling smugly. “I’m not.”

“And the sky isn’t blue.”

“Oh, look, apricots,” Madara drawled, irritation lacing his voice as he paused and turned Izuna by the shoulder. “Right in front of you, six paces.”

“Hide your grimace!” Izuna called in a sing-song voice as he walked over to the table a few yards away, instantly starting to chatter with the woman running the booth.

Madara watched him go with a frown. Everything felt _acutely_ more irritating, for some reason. He knew- rationally- Izuna meant to only lightly tease, and typically, he could give back as good as he got and both of them enjoyed it, but for some reason, whenever he got into these moods everything just felt a bit _much_.

He supposed it was due to the trouble of it all. He was already annoyed by having to trim his nails twice a day and having to comb his hair thrice, and he didn’t like showing his neck off to anyone around who might be tempted to cut it off.

Grumbling under his breath, he resigned himself to doing some actual shopping, piling half his basket full of herbs and spices. No matter what Izuna said, he _could_ cook, and the bastard knew it. He only liked goading him so he would cook for him to prove he could and Izuna ended up with free meals.

“Seven, please,” he mumbled to a woman with a bright blue bandana tied over her hair, causing her to give him a confused look as she piled seven glass bottles of honey on the table to ring up for him.

He was about to turn around and find Izuna again when he saw it. A table at the end of the small street they stood on, hosting various carcasses on the surface and hanging from the ceiling of the makeshift tent it stood before, as a dark-haired man with calloused hands fruitlessly tried to convince people off the street of something.

His gaze zeroed in on a badger hanging from the left side of the tent. It had been years since he’d had one; he’d lurked by a river for twenty minutes before pouncing, in a bit of desperation after giving his rations to Izuna and Ryota. It had been…exquisite.

The man behind the table was sighing to a woman who looked just like him when he walked up. He perked up when he saw him, opening his mouth with a smile, undoubtedly to start the same spiel, and Madara interrupted him before he could speak, pointing to the dead animal. “How much for the badger?”

The man looked a bit thrown off, but recovered on a dime. “A good choice, my friend,” he said with a beaming grin, making a small frown pull at Madara’s lips. No one could ever be straightforward. “Badger is excellent-”

“It’s all preserved,” the woman beside him interrupted, annoyance in her drawl. “You keep forgetting to tell people. That’s why no one’s buying anything.”

“How much is it?” he asked again, eyeing the gleam in the man’s eye with trepidation. The woman sighed, shaking her head as he puffed up again.

“Two hundred ryo!”

“Very well.” He took out his wallet, making his eyes light up and the woman give him a vaguely disbelieving look. It felt strange to be able to buy things so easily.

His gaze fell on the smaller animals on the table- specifically, the snake tied to a long, thin piece of wood, sitting among a few others that shared its patterning. For some reason, it seemed the most appetizing thing there- he’d never had snake before, but he’d heard the meat was edible, and he could see no reason he couldn’t season and cook it if it was. His mouth began to water. “A snake as well.”

“Ahah!” the man behind the counter crowed victoriously as the woman sighed and shook her head. “See, sister? A man of taste.”

She groaned. “Do you want these prepared?” she directed to Madara, looking at him with a mildly tired-looking but not unpleasant expression.

He couldn’t help but snort. She must have mistaken him for a civilian. “I’m more than capable of skinning them myself.”

She shrugged and took out a sack. The man wrapped each animal in brown paper before arranging them inside, handing it to him to sling over his shoulder and smiling in a disarming way at him.

“Tell everyone you know,” he said, just as cheery as Izuna was, green eyes twinkling. “And come back if you want to exercise that good taste of yours on something else.”

At first, Madara didn’t understand what he meant. He quickly got with the program when the sister slapped her brother with a towel that hung from her apron, a reprimand in her tone. “Stop flirting with our customers!”

“Ow! Sister, you’re not projecting a professional image here!”

“I. Uh- oh.” Madara licked his lips, not noticing the slight sting when he did, and diverted his eyes. “Uh…right. Good day.”

He quickly turned and walked away, conscious of the redness of his face. All too aware of the bareness of his neck again, he tried to ignore them both glancing after him, as well as the occasional passing glance of those he passed, no doubt curious as to seeing an Uchiha in something other than a mantle.

Such things were… _awkward_. Madara could lead a whole battalion into battle, but situations that required _politeness_ and _chit-chat_ were far worse.

“Ugh,” he muttered to himself, wrinkling his nose at his behavior once more. He was usually better-equipped to deal with… _everything_ , when it came down to it, when he didn’t feel so weird. Perhaps it was the weather. Passing seasons always did set everyone into strange moods.

He grimaced when he spotted Izuna ahead, chatting with a familiar duo with a bland look on his face. Izuna didn’t quite hate the Senju anymore, but he wasn’t too crazy about them, even if he would smile for Madara’s sake when Hashirama came around.

“Madara,” Hashirama greeted him, always with that damned smile of his, eyes raking him up and down and settling for a brief moment on his collarbone. “Enjoying the market?”

“Yes, Madara,” Izuna repeated, voice as sweet as the honey Madara had bought, and he almost winced. “ _Enjoying_ the market?”

Madara felt his face flush red. Even with all his skills, he didn’t think he would ever know how Izuna seemed to know _everything_ , including flirtations he hadn’t even been in earshot for. “No,” he snapped, out of habit and spite, making Hashirama’s eyebrows pull together.

Tobirama tended to stay silent whenever he happened to be there for their conversations, but, apparently, deemed the situation worthy enough to look him up and down with a slight furrow of his brow and open his irritating mouth. “What happened to you?”

Madara twitched. “Why do you assume something _happened_ , Senju?” he growled, feeling as though his hackles were raised, for some odd reason. Not that Tobirama wasn’t typically irritating, but he felt as if he was too sensitive to everything.

Hashirama raised a hand between them before a scowling Tobirama could retort. “Enough, you two,” he said, sounding tired. Madara almost felt guilty at the exasperated look on his face. “Can you try to get along?”

Tobirama folded his arms, pouting in the exact way little brothers did when they were trying not to look as though they were pouting, turning his head away.

Madara wasn’t surprised; he just scowled more deeply. Hashirama’s brother rarely saw fit to apologize for anything, especially when it came to arguing with things Madara suggested for the village.

Though, to be fair, he didn’t even agree with all the suggestions the elders shoved off on him, but he wasn’t about to agree with Tobirama aloud. The entire thing was just troublesome.

“Get your honey, aniki?” Izuna asked him innocently, tilting his head. Madara didn’t know if he was trying to dissolve the tension by changing the subject or just trying to hassle him further. Or both.

“Yes,” he replied through gritted teeth, glaring when Hashirama gave him a curious glance. He still looked a bit confused, wearing a small frown, and it made Madara feel a small shred of guilt; he was being decidedly… _moody_ , and he usually wasn’t so, but everything, today, was just so _grating_.

In addition to that, his stomach was starting to ache with hunger. Already his mouth was starting to water as he caught the scent of meat roasting on the air. All that was on his mind was ending the conversation and going home to deal with these troublesome matters later. The itching in his fingernails was back.

“Let’s go, Izuna,” he said, a bit snippily even to his own ears, and turned on his heel to storm off knowing Izuna could easily follow.

All the way to the end of the street, he could feel Hashirama staring after him, utterly confused, undoubtedly wearing that kicked puppy expression that could always make Madara give in. He tried to ignore the shred of guilt growing as he trekked towards the compound and hopefully a meal that would assuage his bad mood.


	3. in some kind of mood

The bad mood was not assuaged.

The bad mood was _worse_.

Madara scowled at his hands as he sank further into his bathtub, ignoring the flickering of the lone lightbulb overhead. The installations were brand new and not exactly the most reliable, but it was too dark for any light to shine in through the window.

The bathtub itself was also a new installation, made of pale white ceramic material instead of wood like the one he’d used in his childhood, and, he thought, at least the coolness of it was soothing against his skin. He felt too warm, despite having no high temperature, and even the _air_ felt biting in the ire-stirring way.

He huffed to himself and sank further down again, letting more of his hair be submerged in the cold water. It was comforting on his scalp, which couldn’t even manage to be itchy in the correct way. It wasn’t quite fully _itchy_ \- it just felt… _wrong_.

And now that it was wet even _more_ clumps of hair were coming out. He’d started a _pile_ on the floor beside the tub.

Madara groaned and rested his head against the side, staring at the ceiling and his flickering lightbulb. Maybe it was his change in food. His sparser diet had seemed to make his body work…maybe not better, but more like he was used to. Much less hair to pull out. His nail growth was slowed down.

It occurred to him, briefly, to perhaps try it again, but something strangely like- guilt- no, perhaps…shame- made him toss out the notion, some strange sense of embarrassment at it. He’d gotten used to having his freezer full of food. He’d gotten too dependent on it, he supposed.

And… _gods_ , he could feel himself getting hungry _again_. The badger and the snake had proven a highly satisfying meal but a meal that had left him salivating for more half an hour after he was done.

He groaned again and cursed his confounded body for not working right. As if to add to his daily inconveniences in some small way, he’d found a strange cut on his tongue, and he couldn’t even figure out where it had come from. It wasn’t as if he went around licking sharp things.

He hated feeling off-balance. He hated feeling not in control. Even worse, he’d snapped at Hashirama for no reason, and he _did_ snap at Hashirama sometimes but it was always because he was doing it on purpose or teasing or because Hashirama had done something stupid that deserved it, and he didn’t deserve it by simply…standing there…being…as beautiful as he was-

Madara swore and sat up, hissing in frustration at all of the irritations bothering him, digging into the edges of the tub with his hands, wondering _why_ he couldn’t manage to just act _normally_ ­-

An odd whining sound caught his attention. Frowning, he realized his grip on the tub was much too strong- strangely strong- and pulled his hands away, confused at the sensation of- digging his nails out of it-

He froze, staring at his fingertips, at the nails that had grown longer than they ever had before to something sharp like an Inuzuka’s. Sitting up so quickly he dislodged a wave of water onto the floor, he stared at his nails- claws- _claws?_ \- no, not claws, they were simply- simply very sharp- _very_ sharp- they were just overgrown. And…and oddly-colored, darker than before, just odd.

He stood, ignoring the water in the tub, clambering out and onto the mat beside it and grasping for his towel. His nails tore through it as he tried to grab it, and he cursed again and again as he tried to get it wrapped around himself, not even heeding the way he dripped a wet mess across the floor as he stormed towards his bedroom.

He sat down at his mirror in a rush, ignoring the towel as it flopped to his lap in a few torn strips, heart pounding as he turned on his lamp and put his hands on the desk. They were still there. Almost…a quarter of an inch longer than usual, filed down to sharp points, like…

Maybe it was just…a fluke. His nails had done strange things before, although nothing like…this. it was probably some sort of…hormonal imbalance of some variety. He’d heard of that many times, things medic nin hadn’t even been aware of before the existence of hospitals that testing could be performed in. People growing odd amounts of hair, having weak skin, brittle bones, being unable to stop bleeding once they started because their blood didn’t clot- all within the realm of possibilities. This probably wasn’t so strange.

He would just…cut them down again, and all would make more sense and be less unsettling in the morning light. He was overreacting. Inuzuka had these types of nails. Perhaps whatever happened within their bodies to cause it could affect others from different clans. Perhaps it had to do with chakra- some overflow to the area causing a growth- anything could be the cause.

It was fine, and he was being an idiot; ridiculous. He was a bit embarrassed at his own panic.

It would be absolutely fine, and he would wake up and laugh at his own stupidity that evening.

* * *

 

Hashirama was a little bit worried, but he honestly didn’t think it would turn out to be too much to worry about. He knew Madara was a bit more…high-strung than some- that wasn’t to say he was in constant moods, but if something had annoyed him, he’d probably just snapped out of irritation and decided to go cool off.

He figured maybe it was a small argument of some sort with Izuna, since he did seem to be poking at him at the market a bit, though it was hard to tell for those two. Hashirama could admit that he had a hard time understanding their relationship completely. They could look like they were fighting like cats and dogs and actually be complimenting each other.

If Madara was still unhappy at the budget meeting the next day, he figured, he could ask him what was wrong- offer some support- maybe he would even take it. Hashirama wished he would accept his support more often. His comfort, even. He wished Madara would let him in, that…close, let him touch him, even, maybe even lean into him and accept it because it made him feel comfortable-

He stopped short when his nose collided with wood. Letting out a disgruntled noise, he raised a hand to his nose, wincing as he stepped aside from the door frame he’d run into. He always seemed to get so distracted when Madara was on his mind.

He couldn’t help it. He’d been worried in the village’s infancy about whether the alliance would hold- about whether Madara felt comfortable- if he still thought it could work-

Madara’s home was still so barren and empty, as if he didn’t think it was his home, as if he was still living in the days of wandering around the plains, he hardly kept anything for himself-

Everything was fine. He was working himself up for no reason again. Hashirama often thought about whether his friend felt at home, probably more than the man himself did. As long as he knew…

Well…knew that Hashirama cared- probably more than he should have- but there wasn’t really a reason not to care too much- he cared a _lot_ -

He was ripped from his thoughts by the appearance of Madara himself as he rounded the corner into the hallway. “Ah, Madara!” he exclaimed with a smile, hoping he looked inviting. “How are you?”

Madara glanced up at his face, meeting his eyes for a few brief seconds, and he felt the warmth of connection, of seeing Madara’s presence, something quiet and fleeting passing through them; he always did like it so when their eyes met. But Madara looked away after those moments, eyes darting to the side, as they often did. “I’m fine.”

“You seemed a bit…off, yesterday,” Hashirama said carefully, trying to avoid sounding too accusative. No one liked being subject to an interrogation.

Madara winced, a small and hidden gesture that was easy to spot at this point. “I was just…in a bad mood,” he said, eyes still nailed to the ground, and though it still seemed as if he wasn’t explaining something, it didn’t feel too urgent or world-altering. “It’s fine. I’m going in.”

He sidestepped towards the council room door, a bit quiet; Hashirama wanted to ask if he wanted to talk about it, but he didn’t know if they were quite there yet. He decided to leave it be, seeing as Madara seemed to be over whatever it was, hopefully.

Madara placed himself near the window and let out a sigh, rubbing at his left wrist where he’d been tracing one of his tattoos earlier. He’d pressed down too hard and his nail had almost felt sharp.

It was just his imagination. His nails were _always_ rather sharp, they weren’t any different than usual, and he was just seeing a flutter where there was nothing.

He could hear Hashirama outside the meeting room, waiting for everyone else to arrive as he always did; voices were mingling in the hall and they would all be side-eying him and judging how the Uchiha’s contributions to the budget had been less than their clans and not approving of his decisions, just as the Uchiha did, constantly, no one _ever_ approved of his decisions and scathingly never offered up anything of their own-

A click startled him. Dismayed, he looked down at his hands and at the long, sharp nails that had flicked out, darker in color- a murky grey.

Someone stepped in through the door. Panicking, Madara threw his hands down and hurried over to a seat at the table, using his draping sleeves to hide his hands. He tried to school his expression into a mask, fitting of an Uchiha, what all Uchiha coached themselves to project, but he couldn’t shake the reminder of what lay under his sleeves, of how they all would _look_ at him if they saw them. Uchiha Madara, the monster who’d stolen his brother’s eyes, with hands fitting of a monster, too.

The Yamanaka clan head strolled in first. She raised an eyebrow at him, but otherwise said nothing as she sat down. They all came trailing in; every clan head and a few other attendants to the village’s inner workings.

He avoided looking at Hashirama. If the man caught his gaze he would probably know something was wrong as soon as he did. Instead he stared at the table as Hashirama spoke, about something to do with the village funding or other, as the other clan leaders droned on about what funds they could contribute- someone mentioned the Academy, and there still was not an Uchiha teacher there, and he couldn’t help but feel it was pointed…

Madara made himself as blank as he physically could when he began talking, keeping his eyes on the small stack of papers in front of him as if he was bored. They would each believe that readily enough. He was hardly even aware of what he was saying, other than it had to do with the fact that he was adding more Uchiha to the jounin roster (they _were_ so dearly irritated with the concept of keeping guards in the compound, so why not let them all work?)

He went to mark something down, still not looking at anyone, even so as he could feel some confusion begin to radiate from Hashirama’s direction, and paused when he realized he had no pen.

An arm from somewhere on his right held one out. “Here, Uchiha.”

The Inuzuka clan head called everyone else by _san_. Madara wondered-

He stared at the pen, letting an awkward silence fall. The other man raised an eyebrow at him. “…set it down,” he said stiffly, avoiding the man’s eyes. They crinkled at the corners, as if in disbelief, as he set it down, twitching a little when Madara reached out to take it- concealing his hand- and carefully held his clipboard up so no one could see where his sleeve fell away.

“Uh…”

Whatever the Nara clan head had been about to say was lost to the uncomfortable silence as Madara set the pen down, staring at his papers with an empty look. He had nothing else to contribute to the meeting. They were all _staring_ now. He just wanted to return to his aviary, where there weren’t any problems, no irritations-

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a matter to attend to, my apologies,” he blurted out, shoving his chair back so fast it squealed on the wood and practically running for the door. He still didn’t look Hashirama in the face, but he did hear him call out after him- worried, when was he not worried, when did Madara not make him worry- and he ignored it.

* * *

 

His bad mood worsened.

He wasn’t interested in confused questions, or odd looks, or having people stare- all he wanted was to go about his work being ignored, and everyone could exercise some common manners and give him that. What should he care if someone was baffled by something he did?

It wasn’t as if any of them ever spoke to him anyway. They hardly had any right to take the opportunity to try now.

“Er, Uchiha-” someone- some man, a chuunin or a jounin, Madara didn’t care- began, pausing in the hall to address him, squinting as he frowned.

“I’m busy,” he snarled back, baring his teeth, and the man flinched like he’d struck him before scurrying off.

“Madara!” a familiar voice exclaimed behind him, half muffled when he stormed into the archive room and let the door slam shut. It opened directly after it closed, making him growl in irritation when he heard Hashirama step through. “Madara!”

“What?” Madara snapped, setting down the stack of files he’d been going to put away with a hard thump onto the table. He turned and scowled when he saw Hashirama, brow pulled together, looking so _concerned_ ; it just seemed to piss him off even more.

Hashirama’s frown deepened. “You’ve been snapping at people all day,” he pointed out, and his tone wasn’t unkind but for some reason Madara’s mind saw only the words, and he felt some grave kind of anger, covering up a trickle of embarrassment, and _of course_ he would start with that, how poor for everyone to have to be around him-

“I’m in a bad mood, Hashirama,” he said with a glower, clicking his nails on the table. He’d had to cut them down with a knife. He waved one hand at Hashirama’s person, interrupting him before he could speak, glaring. “I’m not interested in your asinine peacekeeping-”

“Madara!” He startled when Hashirama snapped at him, a scowl of his own overtaking his face, the strand of his hair laying over his shoulder jumping as he folded his arms, in anger, raising his voice though he wasn’t shouting. “Just because you’re in a bad mood doesn’t mean you can walk around verbally thrashing people who’ve done nothing but be polite to you. What on earth is wrong with you today?”

Madara stared at him, having fallen into silence, saying nothing- he had done that, hadn’t he? Even Hashirama was angry at him. He’d been so kind earlier, and now he was angry- all because Madara had gone and been like this for no reason- and he had done that, hadn’t he? He’d just been rude and short with everyone he ran across, like some, some-

Because he was just unsociable, difficult to be around, more of a beast, really, like people said, and he didn’t stand around laughing with friends like Hashirama did- no, everyone could see from a mile away he wasn’t built for friends. They could see they wouldn’t want him. All he’d done was prove others right; he was obstinate, abrasive, confrontational, hostile, that’s all he _ever_ was. The only reason Hashirama was different was he was so kindhearted he could tolerate him.

Did Hashirama just tolerate him?

_What’s wrong with you?_

_Everything is_.

“M-Madara?” Hashirama didn’t look angry anymore, brow scrunched together in worry again, but he was blurrier than usual. Madara’s eyes felt a little damp. He’d angered his only friend, probably gone and made it so he wouldn’t want him around anymore, wouldn’t want his help…

“Madara?” Hashirama’s voice had raised again, taking on a startled tone, and he reached for his arm as he stormed past and brushed him off, hardly listening to him anymore.

“Madara!”

He was just- upset, ashamed, he didn’t want to be in the tower anymore, by _god_ , all he wanted was to go back to his aviary and ignore the rest of the village. It was supposed to be easy. Home was supposed to be easy.

Nothing could _ever_ be easy.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to just ask to live at Hakeyama.


	4. Instincts

He felt better the next morning. Remarkably better. So much better that he couldn’t even remember why he’d been so upset. Why on earth had he gotten so upset at such trivial things? That had been the embarrassing part. Even his nails were back to normal now.

Even last night’s…events…had been an overreaction, he was sure. He’d probably just had an…episode, or something. Maybe he’d eaten something weird. He was sure it wasn’t too much of a problem.

He’d gone careening into the woods some time the previous afternoon, spent a while clawing at his hair and ripping some of it out, and ended up curling up at the base of a tree and sobbing for a few hours, but he was sure that was normal. Now all he could focus on was the fact that he was hungry as _hell_.

He wandered into town, leaves in his hair and the back of his duster covered with dust, and sought out a sushi shop. It wasn’t open during the morning, of course, but with a little bribing the owner let him in and prepared food for him.

A lot of food. He may have eaten so much inarizushi the man no longer had ingredients to make any, but honestly- that was just a fault of the shop owner being low on stock, he was sure.

Except he was still hungry. He almost considered going to catch something himself, as he used to, but he was in the mood for something…actually cooked.

Well. His hunger aside- it would have to wait. He supposed he should go apologize to Hashirama. Surely the man wouldn’t be too upset…he was kind.

He didn’t just…tolerate him.

That was a silly thought. They were friends. Friends…

It was his mood swing talking. This always happened. Every time, Madara felt as if every little thing was the biggest problem he’d ever encountered, as if it hurt too badly to deal with.

It had been a little easier when he was younger- when it happened more regularly. He’d barely noticed the…event…when he was seven or eight.

The last episode he’d had- when his nails had acted up, and his hair had started coming out, and he’d gotten hunger pains and mood flips- had been when he was fourteen, after going two years without it- it had become irregular and unreliable. He’d been in such a sour mood and he’d tried so hard to hide it from Tajima yet he’d still ended up snapping at the older man and getting his knuckles broken for it.

Things weren’t the same as they were before. Surely Hashirama would…understand. Maybe he would even know something about it-

No, that was going too far. There was no need to tell anyone about it. It was just…a fluke. He could deal with it efficiently on his own.

…but he would need to get another badger- or five. He had a craving.

* * *

 

“Tobirama,” Hashirama said again, staring at him with big, watery eyes, looking so upset Tobirama almost winced and gave in, “please?”

“Hashirama,” he said, trying to be patient, “he’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

“But- but Tobirama-” Sure enough, Hashirama’s lip began to wobble, in the exact way it did when he wanted something. This time, however, Tobirama was fairly certain he was genuinely upset. “I- I made him _cry_. I yelled at him. I’m- I’m _horrible_ -”

 _Cry?_ How the hell had he gotten Uchiha Madara to cry? And Hashirama, of all people? “It was probably just…a misunderstanding,” Tobirama hedged, eyeing him carefully. He sat on the edge of his desk, ignoring his paperwork, as he had been the last two minutes since he’d asked Tobirama to find Madara so he could apologize.

Really, he should just practice until he was better at sensory techniques, if such a thing was possible. Tobirama had no idea how he was skilled enough to go into sage mode without being able to find someone wanting to hide. Then again, Madara was exceptionally skilled at hiding when he wanted to be.

Hashirama’s head dropped. A dark cloud surrounded him as he spoke in a mumble. “No, it was my fault. I was too harsh on him. I should have thought that something had to be wrong, very wrong, I knew that _something_ was off from the other day and now I’ve made him cry and run off and he hasn’t come back yet and-”

“Hashirama. It’s going to be fine.” Tobirama pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, wondering if it was too late to give his job to someone else. It would be a cruel act to make someone else deal with Hashirama and Madara. “Just-”

As if on cue, the door swung open, clattering into the opposing wall just lightly enough to make them jump. Madara strolled through, looking as though he’d slept in a pile of leaves, looking pleasant enough that it made Tobirama wonder if Hashirama had dreamt the entire thing up.

“Madara!” Predictably, the man shot off the desk and over to the man like a desperate puppy. “Are you okay? What happened? Was it what I said? I’m so sorry-”

Madara cut him off with a raised eyebrow. “What’s the matter with you?”

Hashirama paused. He looked so confused it was almost pitiful. “Huh?”

Tobirama raised a hand to his face and rubbed at his brow. The Hokage at the height of his eloquence.

“What’s the matter with you?” Madara repeated, raising his eyebrow further and looking at Hashirama as if he really was a very confused puppy. “What are you on about?”

“I…uh…y…yesterday?”

“Yesterd- oh!” Surprise rang across the Uchiha’s face. “Right. I forgot.”

“You…you forgot-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Madara cut him off again, waving a hand lackadaisically. “It’s fine. I overreacted; I apologize. Honestly, it wasn’t even that bad. Don’t worry about it.”

He wandered towards the desk, probably to survey the paperwork and get on Hashirama’s case about what was unfinished. That was one perk of having him in the building. Tobirama gave his brother a pointed look and strode out, considering his presence there any further unnecessary.

Hashirama watched his brother leave and turned back to his friend after the door had closed, feeling, if anything, more confused. Madara had fled the building weeping the day before, yet now he acted as if nothing had happened. He was flicking through the papers on the edge of the desk as if they were weather reports he was mildly interested in.

“I…I don’t understand,” he said, because he didn’t. He had clearly hurt Madara, and yet-

He sagged against the table he kept his tea ingredients on. Madara glanced over at him and paused at his despondent manner. An odd array of emotions seemed to flit across his expression before he settled on a frown that seemed mildly concerned.

“Did…I hurt your feelings?” he prodded, puzzled- as he was. He had apologized- why wasn’t that all that was needed?

Then again…Hashirama was…kind. He was sensitive. He’d probably been upset. Madara…had probably upset him very much.

Hashirama opened his mouth to answer. He still looked guilty. All Madara could think to do was try to comfort him in some way.

He walked over to the table before the Senju could speak, acting on impulse and wrapping his arms around him, making a startled and vaguely funny-sounding noise leave the man’s throat. It was the way his mother had comforted him, Madara reasoned, so it must have worked somehow.

He stroked Hashirama’s hair, long and silky and incredibly soft, something he’d wanted to touch for a long while, pressing on the back of his head and bringing him in to lean against his shoulder. It wouldn’t do to leave any tangles- it would get knotted- and Madara knew exactly now horrid _that_ was.

He raked his fingers through every section, brushing out anything that felt out of order, smoothing out a wrinkle in Hashirama’s haori as he did. It was rhythmic- soothing, almost- distracting.

“Poor thing,” he said, voice dropping to a subconscious coo. “Did I upset you?”

The body leaning against him had gone stock still. Hashirama let his head rest against his shoulder with round eyes, unable to do much other than stare at the wall, and worked his jaw a few times before he managed to get out an answer. “I…you…yeah,” he stammered, completely thrown off. Madara had gone from- from- being _Madara_ , for lack of better words, to- doing _this_. He had…Hashirama didn’t think Madara had ever hugged him before. He had no idea what was going on.

“That’s horrible.” The hand stroking his hair smoothed it behind his ear. Madara’s chest felt warm- as if it was almost- almost- vibrating, a little, and- what was going _on_? “I’m sorry.”

His hands were still fixing any wrinkle or snag in sight, as if Hashirama didn’t know how to brush his own hair. He swallowed the lump in his throat and convinced his tongue to move. “It…it’s fine…it was a misunderstanding…”

His body was so close. Warm, receptive, welcoming, wrapped around him, comforting. He could hear Madara’s heartbeat, strong and steady.

Caring.

His face was heating up. This…wasn’t what friends did. Or at least, this wasn’t how friends were supposed to make his heart feel, Hashirama thought. He could look at nothing other than the floor as thoughts of turning his head, just slightly, to rest in the crook of Madara’s neck flitted through his mind. He wanted to wrap his arms around Madara’s waist, he wanted to cling to him, to bury his face in the man’s skin and breathe in his scent-

Madara pulled away from him. Energy thrummed beneath Hashirama’s skin and called for him to come back. “There,” the Uchiha said, expression relaxed in some kind of distant way even if he wasn’t smiling, as he looked at Hashirama’s forehead and brushed his bangs down.

Hashirama let out a slow breath. He looked up and met Madara’s eyes, and there it was, again- that connection he had craved for a long time, without really understanding why- Madara looking at him, without any shields or masks or walls, just looking at Hashirama.

_He’s…he’s so…_

“I have some errands to run,” Madara was saying, speaking over the internal wordless monologue currently dominating Hashirama’s mind, “so I’ll be out of the office. See you later, Hashirama.”

He turned and walked out the door, leaving him alone in his office, as if nothing had transpired whatsoever and he hadn’t just yanked the floor out from under Hashirama’s feet.

_What just happened?_

Slowly, the door open, revealing Tobirama’s twitching face. He had, for a moment, briefly opened the door to go inside and deliver a missive from the Daimyo, and decided not to continue on that route when he saw what was taking place inside.

“Anija. What was that.”

Hashirama continued to stare into space, ignoring his flat tone. “I don’t know,” he muttered distantly, wondering if maybe one of his mushroom experiments had gone wrong. Should he not have eaten the bright purple one the night before? “Tobirama?”

“What?”

“Do you think that I…seem as though I like Madara? In a…more sensual way than friends do?”

The sound of the office door slamming echoed through the entire tower.


End file.
